“Call me Clyde.”

Susan tapped her bag with her finger. “Flight Lieutenant, I can’t possibly meet the demands of our orders by taking personal time, and you have your own orders that will require your full attention.”

“I’m a flight leader,” Boar said. “And with my rank, I’m allowed”—he paused, scanning her body with his eyes—“flexibility.”

“I’m flattered. But the answer is no.” Susan turned.

Boar clasped Susan’s wrist.

She looked at his hand.

“I wasn’t finished,” he said, tightening his grip.

“Let go,” came a strange voice.

Susan looked up and saw a young man with wavy brown hair holding a suitcase.

“Mind your business, Yank,” Boar said.

“Let go,” Ollie said.

Susan felt the lieutenant release her arm.

“What are you doing here, Yank?” Boar stepped to Ollie.

“I’m headed to Church Fenton to join the Eagle Squadron.” Ollie touched the envelope sticking out of his jacket pocket.

“Impressive. I heard there was a Yank squadron being formed, but thought it was a rumor. Mind if I look?” Boar snatched the envelope.

“Give it back,” Ollie said, dropping his suitcase.

The lieutenant glanced at the letter signed by Charles Sweeny, then ripped it in half and tossed it out a window. “Go home to your mum.”

As the shredded paper scattered below a trestle and settled into a marsh, Susan looked at the young man who had come to her aid. She noticed ire etched into his face. And she sensed that it was more what the lieutenant had said than what he had done that had made him angry.

Ollie clenched his fist, cocked back his arm, and hit the lieutenant in the jaw.

The lieutenant’s head shot to the side, but his feet remained planted.

A woman screamed. Heads turned. A few brave passengers squeezed between Ollie and the lieutenant, attempting to break up the fight.

Boar wiped his lip. Blood filled the crevices of his teeth. “You’ll regret you did that, Yank.” He brushed his uniform and looked calmly at Susan. “I was merely . . .”

She crossed her arms, turned, and stared out the window.

Boar glared at Ollie, then made his way through the crowd, pushing passengers aside, and entered another carriage.

“Are you okay?” Ollie asked.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Susan said.

“He grabbed you, threw my papers out the window, and said something about my mother.”

She looked at him. “I appreciate your concern for my welfare, but I assure you that I can take care of myself.”

“I was only trying to help.”

She rubbed her wrist. “What’s your name?”

“Ollie.”

“I’m Susan,” she said, trying to pinpoint the origin of his accent. “Where are you from?”

“Maine . . . United States,” he said.